The silence lingered—but only for a heartbeat. Then everything changed.
King Albedo's expression twisted. The sorrow, the pleading of tears—they vanished like vapor under fire. His face darkened, lips tightening as he drew a deep breath through his nose. A faint mist, cold and spectral, curled from his mouth with each exhale—fog born not of weather, but of raw, coiling magic. His shoulders rose, his frame towering with a terrifying aura.
His eyes snapped open, glowing an unnatural, piercing blue.
"So be it, my daughter," he muttered darkly, his voice a low tremble—like thunder rumbling deep underground.
Both of his fists clenched with a hard crack, knuckles white, veins rising like cords across his skin. The air itself around him began to shudder. Tiny sparks shimmered in the space where he stood, distorting light as if the very laws of nature were protesting the power he was gathering.
From far behind, Zeon gave a low whistle.
